


Make It Stop

by KissTheBoy7



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - High School, Bullying, Depression, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-06 21:37:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/740430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KissTheBoy7/pseuds/KissTheBoy7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras, bullied and worn down by his senior year, doesn't see the point in anything anymore. Grantaire begins to notice the red flags raised... (Heavily inspired by the band Rise Against)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make It Stop

**Author's Note:**

> Ackk okay I finally started writing this. I hope it's as good as it was in my head. Lyrics in this chapter are from Rise Against songs "Make it Stop (September's Children)" and "Heaven Knows".

“Julien!”

He squeezes his eyes shut, tighter, tighter, as the shout tears unrepentantly through the pathetic wall he'd exhausted himself constructing this past half hour. So much for privacy. Quiet. What he wouldn't give for quiet. He aches, and the voices, jeers of _children_ press on his skull from the inside even though he'd left them for another day. The rest of the world will give him no reprieve.

“What?”

It's terse. It takes restraint not to snap. It takes a lot more effort than it should, actually, to speak at all, let alone civilly. He hates himself for letting himself slip this far.

_Eighteen years pushed to the ledge._

“Have you done your homework?” the voice singsongs, through strains of a pop song he couldn't give less of a fuck about. She must be making dinner, but he just wants to be left alone. _I'm not even hungry._ He never is anymore, just tired, and he hates to move at all except to pull the blankets over his head and let everything be black. His head is pounding, and it's only four in the afternoon. He grits his teeth and takes a deep breath, bracing himself to reply.

“ _Yes.”_ The lie pours forth in something like a hiss, the tension in his gut maxing out, heat rising to his cheeks. “Yes,” he calls back, more evenly and he hears a laugh.

Well, at least he can still lie.

“Just checking! I'll call when dinner's ready!” And back to that horrid song, whatever it is – overplayed, over-quoted by teenagers on their Facebook pages. He doesn't want to look at his own right now, at the red flag to tell him how many tormentors he had today. He's just not interested, he tells himself. Social media is for idiots, for kids with nothing better to do. _Children,_ jeering through a keyboard, surrounding him with red eyes glinting.

He hates the color red.

He hates himself.

He hates everything.

His head falls forward onto his arms and he buries his face there, refusing to open his eyes. Not now... Not yet. He _should_ do some of that homework. He should do a lot of things. It would make you feel better, said the counselor, to be productive. Prove them wrong! You're smart!

Fuck smart, fuck you. Another vicious verbal assault. His silver tongue run away from him and papers sent flying, and suddenly he's being dragged out of the counseling center by two steely-eyed security guards in neon vests as the secretaries all peek from behind their desks with wide eyes at a bellowing boy, red from the roots of his hair to the hem of his hoodie, tears pricking at his eyes.

_Brought to his knees he cried._

Forget that. Forget him, he tells himself, forget everyone whose ever told you what to do. Who you are. You're not any of them, they don't _know_ you, you stand for something- but lately it seems the only thing he stands for is a lost cause. Nobody listens to him anymore.

Did anybody ever listen to him at all?

He's so _tired,_ not just of being awake but of being alive. Tired of people and tired of the world and tired of all of the _lies._ If only Combeferre were still here, he might have the will. He might have taught him how to talk and how to cope, and all of those things that Combeferre had been best at. Before the accident.

He really ought to do some of that homework.

He can't be assed to pick up his phone though, let alone a pencil. His bookbag (and all of his homework in it) is still at school anyhow, and probably in tatters. Whoever had taken it _today_ is in for a disappointment. He hasn't bothered to pack anything of worth to him in there for weeks.

Could go online, find it there... Ms. Fauchelevent normally posts her assignments the day she gives them, and that had been weeks ago.

The GSA is probably still in session, too. He could go – could show up after a month of absence, just waltz in and take over again like none of this had ever happened. He should go, should do _something_ constructive rather than sitting here and thinking about change, dwelling on the past. How will anything change if he doesn't do something about it? How can he expect it to? Combeferre would tell him to be strong, stand up for himself. _Don't let them know they've gotten to you,_ and he'd rub his back and they'd exchange small smiles of perfect understanding.

God, he misses Combeferre the most.

One of his hands reaches out, fumbles blindly for his iPod in his sweatshirt pocket, Plugging both ears, he turns up the volume-

_We're calling for,_   
_Insisting on, a different beat, yeah._   
_A brand new song._

Enjolras doesn't expect anything to change. Not anymore.

The world is changing, and people too, leaving him behind and stepping on him as they pass. _He's_ the one that needs to change, they tell him, he's worthless as he is. But how can he? What is there to be done? It could be your personal revolution, some sinister part of his brain whispers, if only you were smart enough to figure it out. There is no way to fix a human being. If he's wrong, inherently wrong, inherently stepped-on, and that's all he ever thinks he's going to be at this point...

There would be no point in going to a club meeting after all this time anyways. He wasn't welcome. That much had been made very clear.

The book he'd been trying to read is digging into his arms and he shifts to push it from beneath them, right off the edge of the bed. It hits the hardwood with a dull crack; he doesn't open his eyes, doesn't hear a sound. The song on his iPod has changed.

_The day I learn to fly, I'm never coming down._


End file.
